In a little while the radio will almost have meconvinced that I am doing something romantic,something to do with "freedom" and "becoming", instead of fright and flight into an anonymity so deep.

But, sweet ruin, I can hear you.There is always the desire.Always the cloud, suddenly presentand willing to oblige.

We will have to go on climbing to somehopeless height, to some fantastic speed.Maybe there are pinnacles of ignorance,altitudes of stupid, from whichrecovery is impossible.

But he keeps going on,half-thrilled and half-appalledby his own strangeness, wondering what godhe could be fashioned in the image of.

Perhaps a wind is freshening the grass, and he can see now, as for the first time,the softness of the air between the blades.The pleasure built into a single bending leaf.

A man hears a word, and the worldbecomes a place that he misunderstands.So he climbs high into his life,ashamed of all he doesn't know,and refuses to come down.

His left eye still remembersa sunset that he saw in 1964; his rightbeholds the snow upon a branchwith so much childish loveit threatens continually to breakthe rockpile of his heart.

He stands again and looks around,strangely thankful just to be alive,oddly jubilant - as if he had been grantedthe answer to his riddle, oras if the question had been taken back.

I think there must be something wrongwith me, or wrong with strength, that I wouldbreak my happiness apartsimply for the pleasure of the sound.The sound the pieces make.